


I'll Jump If You Tell Me To

by BlindSwandive



Category: Colbert Report RPF, Daily Show RPF, Fake News, Fake News RPF
Genre: Bottoming from the Top, Fluff, Fluffy bondage if that's a thing, Having to top from the bottom to even get to be the bottom, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Sexual exploration, Totally consensual noncon, relationships are hard, sub + sub equals complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10037129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Light-spirited bdsm (doesn't even merit caps) and the beginnings of an utterly consensual "non-con" scene.  This is, at its heart, a total fluff piece.  Just... a fluff piece about negotiating kinky-sex tendencies when they're not exactly complementary.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired, in part, by real life events and situations. Just... not theirs.
> 
> This follows the birthday story, "Salt and Wicked Sweet," but doesn't require it. It is helpful to know that Stephen tied Jon down, there, and was pretty good at it.
> 
> "Steve" here is Steve Carell, "Nancy" is his wife, Nancy Walls Carell; "Tracey" is Jon's wife, "Evie" is Stephen's wife, "Amy" is Amy Sedaris, and "Ricky" is her imaginary boyfriend (something that was coming up in interviews at the time).
> 
> This was written in 2007 or 2008, probably, with some revisions in 2017, because why not? One draft was posted on LJ in 2009, but the major revision has never seen the light of day. Feedback is love!

Stephen was breathing shallowly.

He'd watched enough sleepers to know that deep breathing was the first giveaway that someone was faking, and he considered himself a serious enough actor to overcome this. No problem. Light, thin breathing was enough, if you kept calm. And he was trying.

Stephen was also breathing _evenly._

Irregular breathing might have even been worse than deep breathing, depending on the degree of the offense, but you could get away with it here and there, the occasional snort and sigh. Even the tiredest dogs snuffled, now and then, in the night.

Plus, an interruption in breathing generally made the person who was sneaking around you, waking you up in the first place, making you have to pretend to still be asleep so that he could get on with it, already, leap out of his skin in a satisfying way.

When Stephen affected a snort, and held the inhale just a moment longer, Jon leapt back and froze, nearly dropping the belt he was fiddling with.

And when Stephen finally let out a sigh, allowing his mouth to fall just a bit more slack as he did, he heard Jon sigh, too. Deeply. In relief. It was a terrible struggle not to break and grin, right there, but he knew the reward would be great, if he could just make it a little longer. If he seemed enough like a brick, Jon might _finally_ get on with tying Stephen's _left_ wrist down, too.

\---

It had been a long journey, getting to that point. Slow, awkward, and stumbling. Stressful, really. Painful. Long before they'd even entered into their Special Relationship™, or even gotten around to considering it, Stephen had deeply wanted to believe that Jon was capable of tying a man down and giving him what for. Because, of course, he wanted Jon to tie him down and give him what for. It was a simple enough wish, really, but for months, Stephen managed to complicate the wish almost beyond recognition. No, of course he didn't want Jon to treat him, _personally,_ like some debased, animal thing. No, that wasn't it at all.

Endless rounds of denial ensued:

His interest in the matter was purely rooted in platonic affection ("I like him, I hope he's having a good time, that's all").  
He was just curious.  
He was just concerned ("What if he's doing something dangerous?").  
He was just thinking about it because of some comment someone else had made, once.  
Jon _seemed_ like a pervy little man, he just wanted to confirm it ("The terrible suspense!").  
Stephen, himself, was a bit of a perv, and naturally just wanted to be sure he wasn't alone in the matter.  
Etc.

Beyond recognition.

But when it really came down to it, he practically worshipped the man; he would bend over backwards for him, forwards, if he'd only ask, if he'd even hint at some wanting. And on his most honest days, which started to come around more and more frequently, he did have some grasp of how that adoration and his little obsession with Jon's potential kinks went hand in hand. He knew he liked the idea of being tied down and given what for, after all ("helpless to stop it, oh my guilt for my cuckolded wife!"), and Jon was a perfect target for his lust. Stephen respected him deeply, didn't have much history with him, and didn't really know him outside of work--ideal breeding grounds for an aggrandized, sexualized fantasy-fill, rich with awe and wanting. So, finally, he gave in.

Now, for the sake of his elaborate fantasy life, he tried again and again to prove to himself that the possibility was there, somewhere in Jon, for this rough mishandling of his person, though he'd been given no evidence to that end. More to the contrary, really. And more. He dug for it, anyway, analyzed off-handed comments, behavior at work and away, what pocket Jon was keeping his wallet in on a given day. . . He even took to baiting others, hoping they'd slip up and share some kinky tidbit of gossip he didn't already have, hoping they'd confirm a rumor or contradict an insinuation, but the results were lackluster.

Usually, it went something like this:

"I think Tracey ties him down," Stephen would offer to someone, in the relative privacy of some break room, "and I think he likes it."

Steve's response was: "Stephen, this may surprise you, but I actually don't want to think about that. . ." 

"Oh, come on, Steve, hear me out, remember when he said that he--"

"--no, Stephen, no, no, no, _no,_ " Steve said, "No more words on this, ever. Let me explain: I don't need your filthy little 'proofs' haunting my brain when I'm trying to work on a story. If I imagine him tied down to the desk, out there, when I'm trying to talk to him? I will have to castrate you for your disgusting offense against my humanity. And then your wife will kill me. And Nancy will kill _her,_ for killing me, and then you'll kill Nancy for killing _her_ before committing suicide in desperation for your lost huevos and destroyed life. And then your kids and my kids will be engaged in an epic battle of sexually charged hate for the rest of their lives, and for generations to come, for which your desiccated testicles will be the enduring symbol. Do you want to be immortalized that way? Desiccated, detached testicles in your children's hands?"

In short, not well.

After that, Stephen only left suggestive doodles in Steve's files, with question marks on them. But it was out of vindictiveness, at that point. Steve would never budge.

However, when he started the same conversation over with Amy, _she_ encouraged his line of inquiry:

"Oh, you're so right. He wants to be her bitch, when it comes down to it. You know, I think he's atoning."

"You really think so?"

"Of course! You should see their dinner table dynamic. 'Yes, dear,' 'sorry, dear,' passing the salt without her asking, the whole thing."

". . .Kind've a shame, really."

"What? Why?"

"Well, I mean, it's. . . I can relate. It's kind of sweet, and all. But it'd be sexier if he was rough and forceful, you know? A little more take charge."

"Oh, I don't know, I think you and he both under the boot heel of some Amazon would be really hot. Especially together."

"Why, thank you, Amy!"

"You're welcome, Stephen!"

"But he's got a lone, broody streak," Stephen had persisted, "and he's my boss. Isn't your lone, broody boss supposed to be domineering and dangerous, to feed into your darkest fantasies of abject subjugation and helplessness?"

"I didn't realize this was so much a thing for you."

"Increasingly. Starting to bug Evie."

"Oh, right, she's not so into that 'pretend to force my husband to have sex with me' thing."

"Nope."

"I could lend you Ricky, if you like."

"Oh, Ricky's. . . into that, too. . .?"

In short, mixed results.

\---

Jon and Stephen had eventually managed to find one another, through the haze of mulling it to death with somewhat understanding friends and wives, and a healthy dose of accident, but it had been difficult. The kink was even more of a mess to untangle. They hadn't come at it head on, as they negotiated their tryst; no, they'd circled, tried to sneak up on it sideways, or from just underneath it. When they'd crawled into this thing, whatever it was, they'd done a lot of talking. A hell of a lot. Too much.

They'd baited one another, groping for some reflection of their own kinks, trying to rouse something complementary without scaring the other off. And it was supposed to work that way, wasn't it? She loves corsets, and he loves to tie them. He loves having his balls stepped on, and she keeps a pair of very nice platforms for just that sort of occasion. She only likes frosting, and he only likes cake, so they can share one piece. It was supposed to work that way. When you found the person with whom you could be raw and sexual and animal, it was supposed to fall into place, balanced and easy.

And in the end, they did find that the kinky reflection was there. Jon could bring the lube, Stephen could bring the cuffs. They both appreciated how freeing being tied up should be, how even stinging, aching sensations could be beautiful. But they also discovered that this reflection was just that—a perfect reflection, a sub for a sub.

That is, contrary to Stephen's best wishes, and more in line with his suspicions, Jon did, in fact, persist in being crushingly un-dominant. Jon rather wanted to be persuaded to worship at Tracey's feet and have his ass plundered (which Tracey wasn't really into, either). Jon and Stephen just didn't fit together in that complementary, puzzle-piece way; Stephen wanted to be denied, and Jon wanted to give, basely. Jon wanted to be ignored, used, and Stephen wanted to worship. Both of them wanted the freedom of baseness. Neither of them wanted to scratch the other.

But in the end, they were each all the other had. And they were more willing than their respective wives, anyway. So they considered it a learning experience.

\---

It had taken a long, long time from those shaky explorations to get to this point.

It was always a touchy situation, but Stephen felt he had handled it admirably, generally speaking. He was the more adventurous, it turned out. He had done more experimenting, in school, even if a lot of it was on his own. He'd even become a self-considered expert at low-budget self-bondage. He knew how to use the most banal household items to trap himself, and knew just the right wicked things to say to himself when he twisted his own arm behind his back and was masturbating with the wrong hand. So it eventually fell to him to lead them (the myopic leading the blind). And he gave it his all.

It was a bit ironic, really.

He tried not to make it about one-upsmanship, but, over time, Stephen became certain that he was the one who liked being tied up more. _He_ wanted to be treated worse than Jon did, he knew it. But he was the one who had to do the binding. He had to lay the scenes. He had to introduce the bite-sized power games into their sex, because even if it was important to him to get beat up, it was more important to him to please Jon, to fill Jon's needs and fantasies. That was part of what being a sub was about.

And, well, Jon needed the encouragement. And if tying Jon up and covering him in fruit and honey--and making him ask to be fed--meant that Stephen might be turned into the platter one night, or get held down, or have to beg to be cum on, it was more than worth it. If it made Jon feel safer and more confident, and gave him ideas, great.

Plus, awkward as it was, he was starting to get into it, a little. Making Jon desperate. Playing collected and tough and a little wicked. He was an actor, after all, wasn't he?

But he much preferred feeding Jon encouragement from beneath him.

\---

This morning had taken a bit of doing. A little planning, the night before, and a lot of improvising.

Stephen had, considerately, left the furnace on and gone to bed naked. So that Jon wouldn't have to try to pry him out of anything. He'd realized that neither of them had brought the cuffs he'd given Jon for his birthday, so he carelessly left his necktie (loosened, but still noosed) draped over the short post at the right end of the bed, as he undressed, and his looped belt at the left. His pillowtalk had consisted of a few discreet "Remember that time when"s--including a particularly lurid one when he'd convinced Jon to try a bit of role-playing ("You're my unscrupulous boss--you've got my job in your hands, and now. . ."). He'd even been particularly petulant, razzing Jon about how he always slept so late, wasting perfectly good hours of morning that they could be using to get another round in, before going home to their families. And when Jon asked what it would take to get him to quiet down so they could sleep at all, he'd suggested a gag. 

It just took so much work to cause someone to spontaneously attack and take you against your will, sometimes.

Well, Jon needed a little encouragement.

But he was managing fairly well, truth be told. Jon was eager to please, whatever that entailed (bottoming from the top...?), so he picked up on the not-so-subtle hints and went with them. He was certainly putting the appropriate effort in. And Stephen had to hand it to him; if the door hadn't jammed on his way back in from getting caffeinated, Stephen might have slept through the noosing of his right ankle, at least. Jon had been so, so careful with the slipknot, and had bound it to the bedpost with what seemed like a good, strong knot. There would be a little more slack to his leg than Stephen preferred, but not by too much. And when Jon had run up against the obstacle of the solid headboard, he'd remembered Stephen's tips about the legs of nightstands, of the bed itself, and the frame under the box spring, and he'd used his own tie to lash Stephen's dead weight arm down to the mattress, tethering it to the nearest foot supporting the bed. He was just fumbling with having to use a belt for the other wrist, that was all.

"Come on," Stephen silently coached him on, trying to encourage him by osmosis, "you can do it, how many times have we been over this. . . ? Around the wrist, through the buckle, double back for the figure-eight around the bedframe, and then it's speared on the latch, through the buckle, through the loop, and once more for good measure. . . "

Jon had gotten past the part about noosing Stephen's free wrist, and was muttering to himself. ".. . Around.. Double back for the.. . fuck.. . ." Stephen bit down his grin as Jon cursed again. But when frustration finally took Jon over, Stephen's heart began to race: the length of belt was shoved unceremoniously between the mattress and its frame, and pulled through so suddenly that Stephen's arm was pulled taut. Sleep wouldn't have survived that, but that was as long as he had wanted to wait before joining in, anyway.

So his eyes flew open. Even fluttered, for effect. "Nnm? Wha..?"

Encouragement. ("I had no idea this was going to happen!" Stephen tried to express with the angle of his head.)

Jon looked briefly triumphant. He yanked the end of the belt into a straightforward knot that would probably permanently misshape it, but appeared no longer to care (he still had Stephen's free leg to contend with), and Stephen gasped appropriately at his rash behavior.

"Oh, no!" Stephen's voice was weak and sleepy, but full of fear. Well, excitement, anyway. Jon would know it for what it was, and take heart. 

Stephen gave into the urge to put a little real fight into his evasion, too, since he was already as good as trapped, and didn't run the risk of actually getting away. It would make it so much better if Jon had to sort of _wrestle_ him into that last bind. . .

"Don't fight, kid, it'll just be harder on you. . ."

Stephen groaned, and it wasn't just for encouragement, that time. He was already excited, from pulling at his bonds, and being talked down to—even when he knew it was put on—was enough to push it up into overdrive. "Oh, no, help me. . ." he whimpered, and Jon finally put enough effort in to trap Stephen's ankle in the second of their belts. He gave it the same treatment as the wrist, but pulled it tighter.

"Ha!" he said when he'd finished. "You're trapped!"

Stephen swallowed a laugh, but not a grin. "I am!" he agreed.

"Subject to my wicked whims!"

"I am!"

"Even, uh, doomed, you might say."

"Oh, no. . . " Stephen wailed, tucking his face aside, to hide the grin in his pillow. "Mercy!"

"Maybe after you've begged me to, uh.." Jon faltered, briefly, and cursed, but caught himself, managing not to laugh. "…Begged me to let you suck my dick, and swallow my jizz." He forced a straight face, barely, and crooked an eyebrow up at Stephen hopefully; he'd been proud of that one, Stephen could tell, but he was still looking for some support. So Stephen gave a quick nod, and let his grin reign for the moment, writhing.

"Oh, you beast. . ."

"I'll show you 'beast'. . ." And Jon grinned, and Stephen could at least pretend it was wicked.

"Whatever," he thought. "We have fun." That was what mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> There had been a meme going around livejournal of: "Comment with a story I've written, and I will tell you one thing I knew, learned, or wondered about while writing the story that didn't make it onto the page." I posted a draft of this story in response to someone commenting about "Salt and Wicked Sweet." 
> 
> (I then did a major revise to make it not just a birthday-sex, turn-about-is-fair-play thing, but to include the whole mess of exploration and negotiation, which I'm still not sure was a good idea.)
> 
> Anyway. I didn't have a title for this, but I titled that meme entry "I'll jump if you tell me to," and I kinda' thought, kismet. The other option for the title of this would have been too Babylon 5, JMS, something like "Negotiations and Nocturnes," which is a little serious considering the story. So, there you go! Title!
> 
> There was a little snippet of almost-smut that almost-made it into this, from before it became so much bigger and more unwieldy. It destroyed the ending of the story, though. It would work as a part of a second chapter, but since I don't think that's going to happen, here's the original draft, if you're interested:  
> http://blindswandive.livejournal.com/52437.html?thread=181717#t181717  
> The unincluded part is the last three paragraphs, which I actually really liked. Oh, well. (Well, there was a reference to a tupperware of cantaloupe, too, that got removed, and to it being Stephen's birthday, but that's all, otherwise.) Enjoy!


End file.
